


the screams all sound the same (this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore)

by AceMoppet



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Body Horror, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Graphic Violence, Trauma, eldritch body horror, fluff at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-10 22:33:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20535692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceMoppet/pseuds/AceMoppet
Summary: “They called it a ‘surgery’.”Or: Aziraphale is a Principality, but weren't Cherubim supposed to protect the Garden?





	the screams all sound the same (this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore)

**Author's Note:**

> This is written for Ineffable Husbands Week 2019 Day 5: Senses. The premise comes from me asking myself the question "Why would Aziraphale be a Principality if he was guarding the gates of Eden, which was traditionally a job for Cherubim?"
> 
> This fic is made of darker matter than most of my fics, and contains a lot of angst. If any of the triggers above apply to you or squick you out, this fic may not be for you. 
> 
> This fic has been beta'ed and edited, but if there is anything I missed, either in tagging or in grammar errors, please let me know.
> 
> If you like it, please leave a comment or kudos.
> 
> Enjoy!

“They called it a ‘surgery’.”

Crowley blinks and shifts under the blanket. “Hm?” he murmurs, sleepy softness disintegrating under the weight of Aziraphale’s words. “Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale looks up at the ceiling, eyes searching the well-loved cracks and holes as if he’s waiting for an answer that Crowley can’t provide. Crowley’s always been the one with the questions, after all, and now, with Aziraphale’s impromptu statement, he has even more. They buzz in his head, worried little bees accidentally stinging him with pricks of concern. “Aziraphale,” he repeats, sitting up. “What do you mean?”

Aziraphale breathes out, shuddery and light. “Do you remember, my dear, the rank of angels in Heaven?”

Crowley blinks and rubs his jaw. “Er, well, yes. The uh- seraphim? At the top? Then the uh-”

“Cherubim,” Aziraphale cuts in. He faces straight ahead now, eyes falling to the fireplace. There’s a synthetic fireplace there now, with a colorful projection of flames that flicker like real fire does, but with just enough of a difference that makes Crowley relax and breathe. “I used to be a Cherub, you know.”

There’s something wrong with Aziraphale’s tone; it’s forced and light, like he’s trying to hide something.  _ No,  _ Crowley thinks, watching the angel’s hands. They tremble, even as he curls them into fists on top of his knees.  _ He’s trying to not break. _

Part of Crowley wants to bring Aziraphale into his arms, let him know it’s okay to break, that it’s alright to let go. But the other part holds him back; perhaps one day, Aziraphale will let loose of that rigid control he puts over his emotions, free in another way from Heaven’s bondage, but if it is not today, well. Crowley’s still here.

And here he sits, watching Aziraphale tremble and talk a meandering path back to his first statement. “I used to be a Cherub,” he starts again, hands slowly rolling free from his fists to clasp at each other, fingers against palm against fingers. “Wouldn’t have been assigned to the Garden if I hadn’t been.”

_ What happened?  _ Crowley wants to ask, but he swallows his tongue. Patience is a virtue, as they say, and while he is a demon, he’d go through all the virtues and back for Aziraphale.

“The day after the First Rain, they called me back up.” Aziraphale still stares at the fire, eyes catching on the tops of the flames as they leap across the screen. Orange flickers across his face. “I didn’t wonder why- I mean- I assumed they were recalling all of us? Because there was no point in guarding a garden if the people inside have been cast out. I thought I would either be reassigned, or be sent back to sing at Her side.”

“They took me down a long hallway. I’d never been there before, and I daresay I could not show you the way down there again because I’ve forgotten it.” Aziraphale chuckles, soft and bitter. “I rather think that’s a good thing. Though sometimes I wish…”

He stares at the flames. He goes still for so, so long, save the savage twisting of his fingers in his palms that Crowley almost wants to shake him alive. “Angel,” he says instead, trying to be gentle. “You in there? You know you don’t have to tell me this, right? If you don’t want to?”

Aziraphale jolts, and for the first time in the whole conversation, he faces Crowley, eyes soft and dear. “Oh, my dear boy,” he says, almost reverently, “I know. You’d never let me if I didn’t want to. And some part of me truly does not want to. But… I’m rather tired of living with this alone. If it’s not too much of a bother, could you please share this knowledge with me?”

“It’s no bother, angel.” And then, just because he can now, he croaks out,  _ “You’re  _ no bother.”

The small, awestruck smile that blooms on Aziraphale’s face is just beautiful. It’s the Second Sunrise, familiar, but no less wonderful for its familiarity. “I thank you, Crowley. I’d compliment you too, but I would like you in your human form for this.”

“Ngk, er-” Crowley’s ears burn at the memory of the first time after the Armageddon that Aziraphale had called him ‘kind’. He’d turned into a snake so fast his ears had popped. “Th- ok. Alright.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale says, settling back into position. He still stares at the fire, but his hands hold themselves loosely, less like a python constricting its prey and more like a lover holding their partner. A prayer, instead of a savage, graceless plea. “Where was I? Oh, yes.”

“After a while, we came to a room. It was one of the doctors’ rooms, though back then we just called them healers. Quite well-lit, though I have to say it looked rather sterile. Probably for the best; cleanliness is important, after all. Still, it was not the most comforting room. It didn’t help that the angel who’d escorted me there told me to lay on the chair in my true form and left without so much as a by-your-leave.”

“They dulled my senses, for the most part.” Aziraphale swallows. “I was- numb, the true numb kind, not the tingly kind- around my lower wings and my three heads.”

“Wait,” Crowley cuts through, shocked.  _ “Lower  _ wings?  _ Three  _ heads?!”

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale says, chuckling. He glances over at Crowley, mouthing quirking in amusement. “I was a Cherub, after all. We all had four wings and four heads: one of a lion, to represent the wild animals; one of an ox, to represent the domestic animals; one of an eagle, to represent the birds; and one of a human, to represent, well, humans.”

“Oh,” Crowley says, vaguely blindsided by this new information. “Huh.”

“Indeed.”

Crowley shakes his head and peers into the metaphysical realm, trying to see Aziraphale’s true form. “Angel,” he says, confused, “You don’t… you don’t have four heads. Or four wings.”

“No,” Aziraphale says. His mouth quirks again, this time in a wry, bitter smile. “I used to.”

Crowley feels his heart stop with a  _ thud _ . “Aziraphale,” Crowley asks, shivers crawling up his spine, “You- you said it was a surgery-”

_ “They  _ said it was a surgery,” Aziraphale corrects. “Said it was necessary for my demotion to Principality. You see, I was the one who had let Adam and Eve out of my sight, thus letting them get cast out of the garden. They could not have such an incompetent Cherub now, could they? Therefore, I was to be demoted to Principality, and I would watch over humanity properly this time, to redeem myself. And of course, Principalities don’t need four heads or fours wings…”

“Those  _ bastards,”  _ Crowley hisses, struggling against himself to not just jump up right now and pull up to Heaven to break it down, brick by shining brick. He focuses on his anger, because if he doesn’t, he’ll spew whatever wine is left in his system right onto Aziraphale’s dumpy old couch and blanket, and he actually likes this couch and blanket.

“Quite,” Aziraphale agrees, prim and proper. He clenches his hands. “It didn’t hurt at all, really. They gave me anaesthesia, after all. Still, it was… a rather horrid feeling, to blink one moment in one head and then watch it roll out in front of me.”

_ No shit!  _ Crowley wants to scream, angry and sickened and fucking devastated by the way Aziraphale’s breath comes faster and his voice seems to shake.  _ No fucking shit! _

“This may sound a bit melodramatic my dear, but,” Aziraphale swallows and shuts his eyes. When he opens them again, tears burn in them with the light of a dying sun. “It felt like I was dying,” he croaks out.

A tear falls, and Crowley is reaching over before he can think to stay away. He takes Aziraphale’s hand and the angel immediately clings to Crowley’s, grasping at his hand like a dying man. “Angel,” he says lowly, soft and soothing, “You’re okay now, alright? You’re not with them anymore. You’re here, with me, in the bookshop.”

“I know,” Aziraphale says, sniffling. “I- I know. I’m here. I’m lucid.”

“Good,” Crowley chokes out. “That’s- that’s good.”

Time passes. There’s no clock in Aziraphale’s backroom, so it’s hard to tell if mere seconds or centuries have passed by the time Aziraphale loosens his grip on Crowley’s hand with a sigh. He doesn’t take it away though, and instead starts to gently rub his thumb over the back of Crowley’s hand.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says, soft and fragile like a wispy feather. “Thank you for listening, Crowley.”

“S’no problem, angel.”  _ I’m here for you,  _ Crowley wants to say, but well. It’s hard to break six thousand years of swallowing down his words. He’ll get there, but in the meantime, he’s content with just holding Aziraphale’s hand.

Aziraphale hums, quiet. “Would you do one more thing for me, my dear boy?”

“Anything, angel. Anything you want.”

Aziraphale looks up. His eyes are warriors in their own right, with soft eyelashes for swords and tender eyelids for shields. They’re wounded now, bleeding with tears, but they still stand strong. “I don’t think I deserved that,” Aziraphale says, quiet and purposeful. “I used to think I did, but now, I’m starting to think I didn’t.”

_ Of course you didn’t!  _ Crowley thinks, vicious rage bubbling to the top of his throat.  _ Of course you didn’t- _

“But six thousand years doesn’t change in the blink of an eye,” Aziraphale continues, slow and steady. “So I’m not… I don’t know if I deserved it or not.”

Aziraphale squeezes his hand. “You’re the best of the two of us, Crowley-”

_ No, I’m not, that’s you, you, you- _

“-did I deserve that? What do you think?”

“No,” Crowley blurts, spitting the word from his mouth like it’s the only way he knows how to speak. “No, no no, for fuck’s sake Aziraphale, no!”

“Oh.” Finally,  _ finally  _ Aziraphale sits back, leaning into the couch. For the first time since this whole conversation started, he’s relaxed, the tension having leaked out of his frame with every impassioned ‘no’ Crowley had hissed out. “That’s good, then,” he says, starting to smile. “That’s good.”

_ When Armageddon comes again,  _ Crowley thinks, struck silent,  _ I’m going to tear Heaven down brick by holy brick. _

A tug on his hand breaks him out of his murderous reverie. “Best not to dwell on it, my dear boy.” Aziraphale looks down and pats their clasped hands gently. “It’s been ages, anyways.”

“That-” Crowley swallows, a number of vile words buzzing in his throat. “Angel, that doesn’t change what happened! It’s barbaric! How the  _ fuck  _ could Heaven do that?!”

_ How the  _ ** _fuck _ ** _ could you accept that?!  _ Crowley wants to cry, wants to shake Aziraphale’s shoulders until that blastedly calm face falls once and for all.  _ How, how,  _ ** _how _ ** _ you brilliant, beautiful bastard?! _

“I don’t know, my dear,” Aziraphale sighs, leaning back. The ceiling still contains no answers, or at least, none that Crowley can see, but it seems to provide Aziraphale some comfort because he turns back to Crowley with a more genuine smile. “I don’t know, but for the first time, I don’t care. Perhaps She ordained it so, perhaps not. I’d like to believe not for the sake of my sanity, of course, but even if She did… all’s well that ends splendid!”

“‘Well’, angel.” Crowley flops harder onto the couch, throwing the blanket over Aziraphale’s lap too. He grunts at Aziraphale’s little beam of gratitude and snuggles up to him, head falling onto his shoulder with a sigh. Aziraphale won’t talk about it now, he knows, so it’s better to let him be until he wants to do so again. “...I’ll let this go, now, but you can’t keep this repressed, got that? S’not good for you to repress.”

“Oh yes, I know that now,” Aziraphale says. He brings up one arm and tugs Crowley closer, settling into him with a happy little wriggle. “I’ll heal, Crowley. I’ve got all the time in the world to, after all.”

Crowley looks up at him.  _ Yes,  _ he thinks, kissing Aziraphale’s jaw and savoring the happy little hum he lets out,  _ you’ll heal. And I’ll be there, angel. _

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> me: aw, it's ineffable husbands week! i'm gonna write some good fluff-  
my brain: *opens my third eye* AZIRAPHALE ANGST


End file.
